


Not All Heroes Wear Masks

by MondayVibes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Best Friends, Hurt Peter Parker, Identity Reveal, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Sort Of, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MondayVibes/pseuds/MondayVibes
Summary: Peter’s ears were still ringing and his limbs were still cramping uncontrollably when he finally—finally—spotted the poorly fitting catsuit and garish wig that he’d seen way too many times in the weeks leading up to HeroCon. Clumsily, he dropped from the façade of a half-ruined building and all but collapsed on the sidewalk next to Ned.“Dude,” he gasped out, as Ned jumped, wide-eyed and wild-haired, at his sudden appearance. “I need your coat. That cheap Thor knock-off fried fried my webshooters I can’t get out of here before the cops show up.”Across the street, a Tony Stark with a penciled-on goatee and a Goddess of Thunder were comforting a crying Iron Man. A Captain America was cautiously brushing off his ruined shield. In the distance, sirens were wailing.And maybe Sparky’d fried Peter’s brain along with his suit, but the wholeif you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘emwas starting to sound like a really good idea right now.
Relationships: Ned Leeds & Peter Parker
Comments: 18
Kudos: 128





	Not All Heroes Wear Masks

When HeroCon had first been announced, Peter thought it was the coolest thing _ever_.

He could just imagine it—thousands of people dressed up as their favourite superheroes, milling about as Captain America or doing their best Iron Man impressions, professional photographers snapping photos and making cosplayers feel like the famous people they were pretending to be, stalls full of merch and exhibits featuring broken arrows and a few misplaced web cartridges.

A quick, all caps text message to Ned led to a week-long discussion. Ned very quickly decided that he would put his cosplay skills to use by dressing up as none other than Black Widow. (“Dude,” Peter had said, laughing. “That’s, like, the _worst_ idea ever.”) Peter, meanwhile, wasn’t allowed to cosplay Doctor Banner like he wanted because he had a perfectly good Spider-Man suit as his disposal. (“Just think how much everyone’ll freak out when they see it!” Ned had told him.)

It was going to be the most epic weekend of their lives. They’d go to every panel they could, eat Ben and Jerry’s Minter Soldier and Black Cherry Panther until they fell into ice-cream-induced comas, and—at Ned’s insistence—ensure that Spider-Man swung in for his own surprise appearance.

Then, Peter saw how much the tickets for the four-day event actually cost.

A sigh, a text message to Ned that pick pockets and petty thieves would probably be out in full-force that weekend, and a failed effort to sweep aside the crushing disappointment were all that he allowed himself.

* * *

“Oh, thank _God_.”

Peter’s ears were still ringing and his limbs were still cramping uncontrollably when he finally— _finally—_ spotted the poorly fitting catsuit and garish wig that he’d seen way too many times in the weeks leading up to HeroCon. Clumsily, he dropped from the façade of a half-ruined building and all but collapsed on the sidewalk next to Ned.

Ned, in return, yelped and jumped back, hands balled into fists, waving his arms as though he could actually channel his inner assassin if he flailed wildly enough. Then, his wide eyes took in the red-and-blue suit twitching and trembling before him, and he lowered his hands.

“You almost gave me a heart attack! I thought—I mean, that guy was _just here_ —” He took a deep, wheezing breath and tried again. “Who _was_ —?”

But there was no time for that. “Dude,” Peter gasped out, “give me your coat.”

A quick glance told him everything he needed to know about the nondescript city street, just blocks away from the convention centre: the streets were in ruins, cars smoking and streetlamps sparking, storefronts cracked and crumbling. An oversized McDonald’s U stuck out of the windshield of an unfortunate sedan. It’s accompanying golden arch was shattered, smeared across the pavement.

The aftermath of the battle was enough like chaos to take his breath away. All the moving bodies and flickering lights and the smell of dust and smoke. The sharp tang of ozone still curling through the air.

The smattering of convention goers around them were wide-eyed and pale faced. One of the Iron Men was crying hysterically into his helmet while a Goddess of Thunder awkwardly tried to help him to his feet. A few of the braver Captain Americas were starting to pick themselves up off the ground or step out of the smattering of still-open fast food joints.

They’d all witnessed his little spat with Sparky the Electricity-Wielding Nutjob—they all knew he was the _real_ Spider-Man, and not just some cosplayer—and they were all dazed now, but if they saw him talking to Ned, if they took a picture and posted it online—

But where Peter’s mind was in overdrive, swimming with that strange combination of adrenaline and fatigue, his friend’s mind seemed to have crashed altogether.

“Huh?”

“Your _coat_.” Faintly, Peter could hear sirens. He tugged at the sleeve. “I need it.”

Ned blinked, opened and closed his mouth a few times, then looked down at his friend’s insistent fingers. “Like… Like for an insulator?” He finally got out. “’Cause I gotta tell you, it’s not real leather, so I don’t know how well it’ll—”

Peter was this close to facepalming. In fact, if his muscles weren’t still twitching spasmodically, making the risk of smashing himself in the face a very real one, he _would_ be facepalming.

Instead, he settled for an impatient groan. “No! I can’t—” He took a steadying breath and twisted his wrist so that Ned could see his sparking, blackened webshooter. “That cheap Thor knock-off fried them. I can’t get out of here before the cops show up.”

Because the sirens were most definitely getting closer, converging on them from all directions, a rhythmic wailing that plucked at his adrenaline-spiked senses and made him want to clap his hands over his ears.

The braver Captains were helping others to their feet now, or else brushing off their homemade shields and staring wide-eyed at the carnage. A Tony Stark with a penciled-on goatee joined the Goddess of Thunder and the crying Iron Man, and draped his suit jacket over his counterpart’s shoulders.

Peter really, _really_ had to get going. “C’mon, man. You’ve gotta help me out. If the police realize that I’m, you know, the _real_ _deal_ _…_ then the entire world’ll find out what I’ve been doing.”

Ned’s eyes took in the ruined webshooter, then slowly roamed over the shaken cosplayers and crumbling street. There was no way he couldn’t hear the sirens by now, surely, so he had to know that they were running out of time…

“Coat, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he jerked it off and, hands still shaking, held it out. “Right. That’s cool. I got your back. Guy in the chair, right?”

Peter breathed out a sigh of relief and grinned from behind his mask. “Guy in the chair,” he repeated, then snagged the jacket and turned without another word.

He bullied his shaking legs back into motion, and stumbled into a dark alley as quickly as he could. Behind him, the telltale shriek of tires heralded the arrival of the first cruiser, and around him, the brick walls shone an alternating red and blue. His shoulders sagged, and he all but collapsed in the shadow of some overfilled dumpster.

Nick of time.

Still, New York’s bluest would want to sweep the area, round up the witnesses and make sure the baddies had cleared out and all that, so the extra time wasn’t so much nicked as it was borrowed. Plus, he had to get back to Ned before his friend inadvertently told the whole street about lending Spider-Man his jacket or something equally not-good.

In the street, the sirens finally cut off and the voices of way too many police officers filtered into the cool night air.

He closed his eyes, let himself count to ten while his mind swayed and muslces trembled. Catalogued the deep bruises that criss-crossed his back and shoulders, and the sharper flashes of pain that scored hits up his arms and down his legs.

Then, he bundled it all up and forcefully shoved it away.

“You up and running yet, Karen?” The first shock had caught him square in the chest, blowing out circuits all over the suit and overpowering the earpiece in his mask. He’d had to rip the damn thing out to keep it from completely deafening him.

No direct answer, but his heads-up display flickered and stuttered back to life. He decided to take that as a “yes.”

“Awesome.” He slipped the baggy jacket over his shoulders and rolled up the sleeves until he could use his hands again. Unclipped his webshooters and stashed them in a pocket. “Can you loosen up the suit by, like, five percent or something?”

A whine like a balloon letting out air. Then the fabric released its hold on him, sagging at the knees and elbows, loosening around his chest, wrinkling around his neck. He yanked the mask from his face and hid it beside the webshooters, hauled himself up off the damp cement and hurried toward the opposite end of the alley.

One hand was still trying to flatten his hair when he burst out of the alleyway, a graffitied carpark on one side and a bar expelling hysterical people on the other. He breathed deep, dropped his hand—please, _please_ , let no one notice him—and darted into the crowd.

The babel of conversation, half frantic and half excited, washed over him.

People were desperately asking others if they’d seen this Deadpool or that Daredevil. Voices caught as they shouted the names of their friends, tears on their faces as they wondered what was happening? Were they safe? Had Spider-Man been at the convention with them, or was he just swinging by?

For a breath, he was swept away with the ebb and flow of bodies, but no one glanced at him twice. Luck, it seemed, was finally on his side. He sidestepped a Wolverine with spoon-claws, sidled around the bar’s brownstone walls, and turned south.

The ruined street was blocked off now with the blue and white bodies of police cruisers, but the perimeter was still being set up by a couple of rookies; a stream of other officers rounded up the witnesses, handing out comfort blankets and taking names and statements.

Crying Iron Man had taken his helmet off, revealing some redheaded kid who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The Goddess of Thunder turned out to be a brunette, and she trembled while she clutched a wig, blanket sagging around her shoulders. One of the Captains, a full head taller than so many of the others, pressed a piece of gauze to the head of a bleeding Ms. Marvel. When a couple of paramedics found them, he passed her off with a smile and a tumble of medical jargon Peter couldn’t make heads or tails of.

But Ned was still here somewhere, alone in this mess. Probably fidgeting wildly as his eyes flickered over to the alley where he’d last seen Peter, mind running and stumbling and twisting with a thousand frenetic thoughts. Wondering where the hell Peter’d gone and how long did it take to do something and if his friend really was okay. And, while Peter was beginning to wonder if he could honestly answer that last question one way or another, he did at least know he could ease the other teen’s worry by actually being there by his side.

So, when the rookies weren’t looking, Peter ducked low behind the sedan with the McDonald’s U sprouting from its windshield and snuck past the fluttering police tape.

Ned was still standing on the sidewalk where Peter had left him, though his fingers were now drumming an anxious tempo against his thighs and his eyes kept skating away from the officer trying to ask him questions.

Peter made his way forward, stumbled when his toe caught on the curb, and kept himself from falling just in time to see Ned and the officer turn.

“Peter!” Worry and surprise warred on Ned’s face, and he reached out a helping hand too late. “What were you _doing_? I thought, I dunno, that you were gonna—” a glance at the uniform just feet away, and he cut himself short “—gonna, ah… call… your aunt. To—you know—let her know you’re okay.”

The officer blinked once, then gave his head a weary shake. Clearly, Peter wasn’t the only one ready to call it a night. “This is your friend? You want to tell me why you didn’t mention him before, son?”

Ned looked terrified. “Because, uh… Because—”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be here!” The words tumbled from Peter’s mouth before he could remember thinking them. “Because I, er, didn’t manage to get enough money for a ticket until they were all sold out and—”

“Right, right.” The man waved the explanation aside. “What’s your name?”

His name? His name. His _real_ name. Oh God, he had to tell someone his name _while he was wearing his suit._

His heart hammered against the curve of his ribs. The officer stared at him, expectant.

“P—Parker,” he finally squeaked out. “Peter. Peter Parker, sir. That—that’s my name.”

A pause while it was written down. “Did you see what happened here?”

“Uhhh…” Should he say yes? No? That he’d panicked and blanked out? That he’d been so close to the carnage that he could feel the pain of the resultant rainbow of mottled bruises and a ruined multi-million-dollar suit? That’d he’d been the _cause_ of half—okay, maybe ten, twenty percent—of this wreckage?

The officer sighed, leveled a half-stern, half-exhausted gaze at him, and lowered his notebook. Opened his mouth to toss out some reprimand or threat or, even worse, to reveal that he knew the truth about Peter—that witnesses had told him all about Spider-Man talking to the fake Black Widow and running off—that the cat (the spider?) was out of the bag and vigilantism was illegal in the State of New York and he was going to be sent to some Super-Super-Super Max Villain prison and—

Peter’s mouth opened on its own, but his mind was buzzing and his limbs were buzzing and a scattered mess of words clogged his throat until he could hardly breathe, let alone speak—

Ned, thank God, came to his rescue.

“He did! We both did!” Ned’s eyes were wide, dancing between the officer’s suspicious gaze and Peter’s own frozen face. “He just—oh man, officer, it was so scary—we were just leaving HeroCon and then Spider-Man swooped down out of _nowhere_ and he’s fighting this crazy guy with some glowy things attached to these really wicked looking gloves and, like, the evil guy was all ‘I’m evil and I’m going to destroy you!’ and Spider-Man was all _thwip_ _thwip_ _thwip_ —”

He gesticulated wildly, and nearly caught the man across the chest.

“—then he pulled up some fire hydrant and it was all _fsheewwww_ and the evil guy got all soaked so he, like, electricity’d off somewhere and Spider-Man chased after him and…”

A deep, heaving sigh, though Peter didn’t know if it was from the last vestiges of adrenaline leaving his friend’s veins or the fact that it’d been the first breath the other teen had taken during his entire diatribe.

“It was,” Ned concluded, “ _so cool_.”

“Uh huh.” It was clear even to Peter, whose mind was beginning to feel as though _it_ had been doused with the torrent of water, that the officer didn’t share Ned’s enthusiasm. “Any reason your friend couldn’t answer the question himself?”

“Oh. Uh…” Ned glanced at his friend. “He—he’s got… asthma?” A nod, like he was convincing himself of his own story. “Yeah. Asthma. And, like, all the stuff that happened… If we’re not careful, he’ll get a—uh—an asthma attack.”

“Is that so?” The man asked, voice dry.

Peter turned his gaze over to the other teen, silently begging him to stop talking, silently willing his own swaying, swimming mind to come up with some explanation—some _better_ explanation—as to why his tongue was tied and his throat was dry.

But now that the adrenaline had dripped from his veins and the heat of battle had cooled, he was starting to realize just how much his fight with Slightly Less Ugly Palpatine had taken out of him.

His back had decided to launch a violent protest in response to having been thrown through the once-bright and definitely-electrified McDonald’s logo, and his ribs voiced their own complaints about having been used to catch his thirty-foot fall to the pavement. His legs were trembling, fingers were numb, and he didn’t realize that the world was about two degrees off kilter until he reached out with a shaking, unfeeling hand to steady himself.

This time Ned was quick enough, and his grip wrapped around Peter’s elbow just time in to keep him from stumbling over nothing at all. He sagged against his friend, stared down at his feet as the world righted itself, and blinked a few times to try to keep it that way.

At least, Peter thought with a muted sort of relief, at least he didn’t have to work hard at seeming weak and scared.

The officer, though, didn’t share his sentiments.

“You don’t look like you’re doing too great, son,” the man said, and the concern softened his words and tightened his eyes. “Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll get the paramedics to—”

“That’s probably not a good idea, sir."

Ned, Peter decided, really the best Guy in the Chair a guy could ask for. Really. The words were already tumbling between the other teen’s teeth before he could so much as shake his head.

“We—uh—you remember that thing in D.C. last year? When the Washington Monument exploded and stuff?”

The officer nodded, and Ned rushed on. “We were there, and we all thought we were gonna die—and, like, there were cops and ambulance guys and loads of people swarming around forever after we got down. He… Well, it didn’t go over too great, you know? He, like, panicked and everything.”

The man glanced over at Peter, who recognized his cue. He took a sharp, rasping breath and ignored his ribs when they protested.

Ned tightened his grip on his friend’s elbow. “Honestly, sir? Getting more people to come over’ll probably just make things worse. But—you… you have our names and everything, right? And my phone number? So maybe we can just leave? I’ll make sure he gets home safe and everything. Promise.”

Even with his eyes fixed firmly on the swaying pavement between his feet, Peter could feel the weight of the officer’s gaze. “That doesn’t exactly seem like a great plan from where I’m standing…”

Oh _man_ …

He summoned up whatever latent acting skills he knew he didn’t have. A noisy, shuddering breath—something between a gasp and a moan—crawled up his throat.

Ned, because he was awesome, didn’t even hesitate before loosening his grip on Peter’s elbow and wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders instead.

“Please, sir.” Ned’s voice hitched and wavered convincingly enough that Peter, for all that he knew it was an act, still felt a twinge of sympathy. “I get that there’re probably a bunch of protocols and stuff around this kind of thing but…”

A deep, steadying breath.

“He’s my best friend and it really sucks when I have to watch him get all hurt, and—and I know how to make it better so I’ve _got_ to. I’ve got to help him. So, please? It’ll be fine. We’ll both be okay. Really. I’ll make sure of it.”

The man was silent, fiddling idly with his notebook and pen as he mulled over Ned’s plea. Peter forced out another ragged breath and added in the most pathetic whimper he could muster for good measure.

The officer sighed in defeat.

“Fine. But you call Midtown South precinct as soon as you get to where you’re going, you hear me? And you leave a message telling me it’s all good.”

“Ah… R-right.” Ned nodded quickly.

“Officer Davis. You call, and when they pick up, you make sure they know that message is for Officer Davis.”

“Yes, sir. Sure thing. Not a problem.”

With a final dismissal from the man, they turned on their heels.

Peter, with his head still bowed to hide his relieved grin and Ned, with his comforting arm hiding how hard he was trying to contain his nervous laughter, made their way down the ruined street, past the blockade of police cruisers, and into the cool New York night.

* * *

Ned didn’t really know how they’d managed to score a couple of seats on the first train out of the city—people were still trying to get away from HeroCon after all, and had flocked to the subway stations like panicked pigeons—but he was grateful about it for Peter’s sake.

His friend had, with a few mumbled protests and a couple of false starts, revealed the state of his tech while they’d shuffled toward Penn Station, and Ned didn’t need to be computer savvy to know that it was bad: ruined webshooters, liquid Kelvar fabric that was blackened and burned, a HUD that barely worked, and too many blown out circuits and systems to count.

Even Peter’s phone had fallen victim to the attack, crushed some time during Spider-Man’s up-close-and-personal with the McDonald’s sign.

Still, no matter what Ned said or how many time he suggested that they call someone and get picked up, Peter had brushed off his concern with a weary grin and a _really, I’m fine, not even tired._

Which, of course, meant that his head was pillowed against Ned’s shoulder by the time they rolled out of 50th Street.

Ned sighed and shifted in his seat, twisting so that he could drag his phone from the waist belt of his catsuit without abandoning his duties as an impromptu pillow.

Around him, people were sharing trembling conversations with their fellow commuters, or tapping out wild text messages or mumbling into their phones. More than one conversation revolved around finding a misplaced friend or reconnecting with someone who’d gotten separated, checking in with or reassuring worried loved ones.

Basically, whatever normal people did whenever these types of crazy, superhero-related showdowns happened in New York.

Of course, Ned thought when his phone’s screen flashed to life before him, that meant his mother—the nosy, gossip-starved woman she was—would have heard all about the battle and would be desperately trying to get a hold of him. No fewer than seventeen text messages waited to be read, only half mining for information ( _what happened?? call me plz_ ) while the others ranged from mildly concerned ( _r u alright? plz call as soon as you can)_ to outright panicked ( _CALL NOW. I NEED TO KNOW UR OK)_.

He sighed, tapped out a quick message, hit send. _i'm fine. it was crazy. spiderman saved the day again._

Almost immediately, he got a reply.

_Mom (11:12:27 PM): what took u so long to answer??? i already talked to may and she said peter already texted her to say he was fine. I’ve been worrying for almost half an hour!!_

A second message lit up his phone, then another, then two more. While his mother went on with her frantic text-diatribe, though, he stared, fixated, on those first few lines of text.

Because there was no way Peter had been able to get a hold of his aunt—a broken phone, a broken suit, and being out cold made sure of that. Which meant that May was lying, putting on a fake smile and spouting out words she couldn’t know were true in order to cover for her nephew’s spidery side gig.

Three pulsing bubbles appeared on the bottom of the text conversation. His mom was on her eighth message and showed no sign of slowing down. Ned closed out of the discussion, swiped through his contacts, and found the number he was looking for.

The light in the carriage was flat and and flickered occasionally, and the train’s rhythmic swaying made it hard to hold his phone steady, but he still managed stretch out his not-pillow arm and snap a reasonably clear picture. He glanced down at it, and grinned.

Peter, his sweat-soakef hair drying into curls, bundled up in a cheap pleather jacket three sizes too big and leaning heavily against Ned, eyes closed and mouth-half open while he drooled on his friend’s shoulder. Ned, his red wig askew but somehow still on, eyes bright as he leaned into the frame.

Still grinning to himself, he opened a new conversation and attached the picture. Hit send.

_Me (11:14:54): [file attached]_

_Me (11:15:17): fyi, everything’s cool. Pete’s fine. Broke his phone again._

He was about to swipe out of the screen and check on his mom’s growing text wall when the reply popped up.

_May (11:15:23): Thank god._

_May (11:15:49): Thank you for letting me know, sweetie. Youre a life saver. Take care of him for me, ok? I’ll meet you both at steinway station._

Ned read the message and grinned. Glanced at his friend, still out cold, settled himself back into the hard subway seat, and gave him self a hardy mental pat on the back.

Sure, he didn’t have to spend his Friday nights fighting human-shaped Pikachus or chasing after wackos in walrus suits, just like he didn’t ever show up late to school because of bank robberies or muggings. No one wondered who he was when he wasn’t wearing a mask. He didn’t have fan pages and Twitter handles dedicated to him, there were no conspiracy theories about where he came from, and tabloids didn’t criticize his every move.

Maybe, once upon a time, he’d been a bit jealous. But now?

Now he was fine with it.

The world could wonder who Spider-Man was, could _ooh_ and _aah_ whenever he took down another crazy bad guy. Could dress up in a red and blue suit, make wild gestures with their hands, and eat Amazing Wall-nut-crawler ice cream until their tongues froze.

Ned, though, could actually be there. He could cheer his friend on whenever he was down, could let him copy his homework and nudge him awake in class when patrols took too much out of him, could pick him up and help him move forward when things really went sideways.

The rest of the world might look at Spider-Man—at _Peter—_ like he was some infallible hero, but Ned knew the truth. So he would back his friend up in all the little ways he knew.

Even if it was as simple as letting Peter borrow some cheap, pleather jacket and standing in as a pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to yell at me? [Tumblr](https://xcrimsonxblackxbloodx.tumblr.com/) is probably your best bet.


End file.
